#mangle just sat there choosing to do things differently this time and it pays off

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Thinking about Roxy and my Plex Mangle meeting in a way that somewhat mirrors how Mangle met the original Roxy and Mangle just having to deal with that I guess

[dem-obscure-imagines]

Choosing Destiny

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Fandom: Marvel/MCU

Summary: Pietro has never believed in fate or soulmates or destiny…well, until he meets you…

Note: I know it was recently confirmed in canon that Pietro and Wanda were 26 during Age of Ultron, but for my own purposes, I’m going to pretend they were only 23. WandaVision spoilers if you squint, but not really.

Warnings: Mentions of death (he doesn’t die tho)

Word Count: 3.5k

Reader is: Female

Pietro Maximoff didn’t believe in prophecy. He didn’t believe in soulmates, either, but that was another matter entirely. His entire life, he’d been making decisions. Important ones. And he wanted to believe that they mattered. That his choices determined his outcome. He didn’t want his hands to be tied when it came to matters like that, to his destiny or whatever.

And yet, at twenty years old, approximately three years before his life would change forever, the fair rolled into town. Wanda wanted to go. She always wanted to go. It helped take her mind off of everything. And besides, with the fair came the psychics that would set up their stands, charging a handful of coins for a reading on your future. Your destiny. Your soulmate.

Wanda was very into it, as he knew she would be, and so, reluctantly, he handed over the money and she sat down across from the psychic, who took Wanda’s hands, shivering slightly before she reached for her tarot cards and shuffled them. “I do see a soulmate in your future.” The psychic told her. “He’s tall. Heroic. I see a long cape billowing out behind him and there’s a…strong association with the color yellow. He’s very intelligent, wise. He’s quiet, but he has a lot to say. He will help you through difficult times.”

Wanda chatted with the psychic for a while longer before they finished her reading, and when she was done, she handed Wanda a small rose quartz stone, which she admired before tucking it into her pocket.

“Let’s go get something to eat.” Pietro nudged her onwards towards the food carts.

“Don’t you want a reading?” Wanda asked him.

He scoffed. “I don’t have a soulmate.”

“I beg to differ.” The psychic said softly, beckoning him closer. “Tell you what, this reading is on the house. Take a seat.”

Wanda pushed him closer to the chair and he rolled his eyes, but sat down anyway. His foot bounced up and down. He was antsy, always antsy. Impatient. And on top of it all, a skeptic.

The psychic reached for his hands and he gave them to her. As soon as she made contact with his skin, she gasped.

“Oh you have a soulmate alright. She’s incredibly powerful. I can feel her energy radiating just from your touch alone. You’re going to meet her soon. Not right away, but definitely in the next few years. I sense…some tension. Some resistance, but inevitably, things will work out.” She reached into a pouch hanging from the table and pulled out a butterfly charm. It was small and silver and made of metal and when she pressed it into his palm, it was cold to the touch. “You’ll know it’s her when you see a butterfly.”

Pietro was disbelieving, but he nodded, tucking the charm into his pocket.

“How about that, huh?” Wanda asked as they started walking away. “You have a soulmate after all.”

“We’ll see…” Pietro shook his head. “I still don’t buy it, though, for the record…”

“Sure.” Wanda smirked, unconvinced. She’d seen the look on her brother’s face she knew that look. And she knew that whether her brother liked it or not, he believed the slightest bit that there was someone out there made for him. She liked to believe it, too.

***

There were not many belongings Pietro had inside the walls of the Hydra facility he was transformed in. But one of them was the silver butterfly charm he had gotten at the fair that day. He always kept it with him, and he’d fought tooth and nail to be able to keep it when he’d gotten admitted.

When he was in his cell all alone, he’d take it out and look at it, study the intricate patterns on its wings, and then tuck it back into his pocket, his fingers fiddling with it.

He remembered the day when his transformation happened, although he didn’t like to think about it often. It stirred up weird emotions in the core of his being. Being…altered in a way like that. Changed into something he was never meant to be. Most of the moments from that day, his brain had tucked away, had hidden from him, but when he first stepped into the room with the stone, it had seemed to…come alive.

He watched with wide eyes as it released itself from the staff it had been held inside and floated in front of him. And in the glow of the stone, a figure manifested herself in front of him, a girl who was a bit shorter than him. She had giant butterfly-shaped wings spread out behind her and she landed in front of him, as real as he was. Vivid and beautiful. He stared at her for a long time, waiting for her to speak.

And she did.

“Pietro…” She’d spoken, her voice soft and sweet, but also…worried? He couldn’t tell. “I need you to be okay for me. Breathe, alright?”

“I…I don’t understand. What do you mean?” He asked, but she didn’t respond. It was like she was separated from him somehow, somewhere different in space and time although she was standing right there in front of him.

She reached forward and rested her hand against his cheek. “I’m here, now. Just breathe…”

And then everything went black.

When he came around, everything started…changing. For a few days, every step he took was at superspeed. He’d run into walls without really meaning to, rush forward feet at a time when he’d only meant to move a little. He was hungrier than he’d ever been in his life. He’d always loved food, but now, he felt like he was starving all the time when he was eating more than he ever had. His enhanced body burned through it like it was nothing. His hair started to turn blonde and then white, leaving the top half of his head a silvery bleached color that rivaled the snow. He barely recognized himself in the mirror anymore. Barely recognized this person he’d become.

The choice he’d made, the choice he and Wanda had made together, had sent him on a different path, had altered his destiny. And he wondered if he’d ever pay the price for it.

***

The day came, as he knew it would. His home town in Sokovia was being hoisted into the air, higher and higher every minute. The air was thin and he had trouble catching his breath. He was used to running, now. It was part of him, his speed. It was a gift. A blessing. A “miracle” as the scientists at Hydra had said. He couldn’t help but believe them.

He heard something approaching the border of the city, something big, and when he ran to the edge to see what it was, he was surprised, but pleasantly so, to see a Helicarrier rising, a S.H.I.E.L.D. logo emblazoned on it. He looked around and spotted Captain Rogers standing nearby with the Black Widow, so he ran over.

“This is S.H.I.E.L.D.?” He asked.

“This is what S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to be.” Rogers nodded, looking on proudly.

Pietro considered it for a moment before replying with a smile, “this is not so bad…”

It was then that he spotted her flying across the gap. The girl with the butterfly wings. And he couldn’t stop staring, his blue eyes fixed on her for a long moment. She said something, but he didn’t hear her, so distracted by her presence. He knew it had to be her, the girl from his vision.

“What?” He asked, blinking a few times. She giggled and the other two Avengers standing beside them chuckled knowingly.

“I said, I’m (Y/N).” You offered your hand and Pietro shook it, squeezing it slightly as he did so, and hesitant to let go once he was finished. “Fury reached out to me. Figured you could use all the help you could get.”

“We’d definitely accept an extra set of hands.” Rogers nodded. “What are your powers.”

“Flight, energy manipulation, enhanced strength…” You listed off. “There are kind of a lot. I can do whatever you need me to do. Be wherever you need me to be.”

“Priorities right now are evacuating civilians and killing robots.” Natasha said.

“That, I can do.” You nodded. “And you’re…?”

“Pietro.” He offered, smiling softly as he did, an unfamiliar warmth tingling in his stomach.

“Pietro.” You repeated, trying the name out. Your pronunciation was a little off, but he couldn’t help but grin at the attempt. “Alright. Well, let’s go kill some robots then, Pietro.” You let your wings flutter, and when you did, your feet lifted from the ground.

He smirked, getting a bit competitive as soon as you’d challenged him. “You’re on. Try to keep up.”

As the two of you rushed off into the city, Steve and Natasha watched with knowing looks, taking another little moment.

“Twenty bucks they’re together by Friday.” Nat said. “Maybe sooner.”

Steve shook her hand. “You’re on.”

***

The battle went smoothly until it didn’t, and as soon as Pietro took fire, you felt the hit in the center of your being. It shook you to your core, and once you’d shot the quinjet that had hit him out of the sky with a powerful stream of pink energy, you landed beside him, his body still and his breathing weak, holes mangling his limbs and torso.

“Pietro…” You whispered, tears stinging your eyes. You summoned your energy to your palms, but it was…different than it usually was. Rather than its typical pink color, the energy you summoned was yellow. It was warm. But you trusted your power and you held the energy over him.

His breaths were shallow, strained. You watched as, very, very slowly, your energy pieced him back together, the holes in his body closing up, repairing as if by magic, as if he’d never been shot in the first place.

He struggled to try to say something, but you just cupped his cheek and shook your head. “I need you to be okay for me. Breathe, alright?”

“But—”

“I’m here, now. Just breathe…” You told him, still pushing energy into his chest, but more slowly, gradually. You felt his pulse and waited as his heartbeat returned to normal, his breathing forced, but becoming more natural as you knelt beside him. “Take a minute. Take your time. There’s no rush.”

He nodded, struggling to sit up, his arms and legs shaking really badly. At some point, you felt like your power hit a wall. There wasn’t anything more you could do for him. He was healed.

“Do you feel okay? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He nodded, staring at his hands for a long moment, looking at his fingers and moving them. “I’m…thanks to you, I am.”

“I think we’re gonna have to get out of here pretty soon. Can you stand?”

“I’ll try.” He decided.

You stood up first and offered your hands to him, pulling him upright with unexpected strength.

He’d definitely pulled something in his leg, and that became obvious as soon as he took a few steps.

“Do you want me to try to—" You started to ask, raising your hand, but he grabbed onto it, lowering it.

He shook his head. “You’ve done enough for me today. Thank you.”

You pulled his arm around your shoulders and supported his weight while he limped.

Captain Rogers walked over and looked at the two of you, paying special attention to Pietro.

“You alright, kid?”

“I am now.” He answered, nodding.

“Get back to the Helicarrier. Both of you. This’ll all be over soon.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded. The two of you walked most of the way back to the Helicarrier in silence, Pietro sneaking unbelieving looks at you every so often.

Meanwhile, Rogers walked up to Clint. “Did you see what happened?”

Clint nodded. “He almost died. But she…she just…healed him. Like magic…”

Steve considered it for a moment, nodding. He looked back and watched as you helped Pietro onto one of the boats, the two of you sitting together. And he decided in that moment that you might not make a bad addition to the team…

***

As soon as Wanda made it back to the Helicarrier, in the arms of the Vision, no less, she ran towards you and Pietro, disbelief on her face when she saw him. Mascara and eyeliner were smudged around her eyes from crying and she looked paler than he’d ever seen her before.

“Wanda,” He walked towards her, taking a painful step forward.

“You idiot!” She wailed, throwing herself into his arms. “I…I thought you were dead! I…I felt…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He apologized, his voice soft. “She healed me. She…saved my life.”

“Who did?” Wanda asked and Pietro motioned to where you were sitting.

You stood up and prepared to introduce yourself, holding out your hand, but she engulfed you in her arms instead, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” She cried into your shoulder. You held her a little tighter in an attempt to comfort her. “I don’t know what I would have done if…”

“Don’t worry about it.” You told her quietly. “He’s safe. You both are.”

Wanda nodded and pulled away from you, looking up at her brother with teary eyes. He smiled down at her. And then his eyes settled on you and he pulled you into his arms, hugging you tightly.

Pietro Maximoff, at one time in his life, hadn’t believed in fate. But now, without a shadow of a doubt, he did.

***

“You want me to be a what?” You asked. You were sitting in the conference room that the Avengers, including their newest additions, had all crammed into in the remains of the Avengers Tower. They were scheduled to move soon, but before they relocated, Captain Rogers had gotten ahold of you through Nick Fury and called you there to “discuss an arrangement.”

“We want you to be an Avenger.” Clint Barton, the one you’d previously only known as ‘Hawkeye’ explained. “I saw you. You saved the kid’s life. We…we need that kind of power. All the help we can get.”

You looked at Pietro and his eyes were locked on yours, a serious look on his face.

“Look, I’m flattered. I am.” You forced yourself to focus away from the handsome speedster and on Stark instead. “But I’m just…I’m a college kid. I’m graduating in like a month. I have finals and…and I…I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”

“You are. Cut out for it, I mean.” Natasha insisted. “We’re not going to force you, but…you’d be a great addition to the team.”

“Can I think about it?” You asked. “I just need to get through college. Get my degree, and then…then I can…maybe look into this hero stuff.”

“Take all the time you need. We’ll be here if and when you come around.” Captain Rogers said.

“Cool.” You nodded. “Thank you.”

You left the conference room and you thought you were alone, but as soon as you walked through them, someone else did too.

“Promise me you’ll think about it?” Your ears picked up the all-too familiar accent of one Mr. Pietro Maximoff.

You looked up at him and you hated it, but your heart raced just looking at him, a blush creeping across your cheeks. You couldn’t deny he was handsome. Incredibly so, in fact, but you couldn’t just give up four years of work for a man at the drop of a hat.

“Why do you want me here so bad?” You countered, raising an eyebrow.

He took a few steps closer to you, framing your cheek with his large, warm hand. “Do you believe in fate?”

You thought about it for a moment. “Kind of. Why?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t until I met you.” Pietro said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver butterfly charm, hanging from a thin silver chain. “A long time ago, a psychic told me I would know my soulmate when I saw a butterfly. And…the moment I saw your wings, I knew…”

He was quiet, shaking his head as he reached for your hand, setting the necklace in your palm. “You saved my life. The least I can do is returning the favor at some point.”

“Okay.” You said, closing your hand around the charm. “I’ll think about it. I promise.”

***

You went back to school. It was hard, but you focused on your studies and before you knew it, finals week rolled around. Your wings, for the most part, weren’t active. They only came out when you needed them, and therefore, you were able to blend in pretty seamlessly. No one looked at you differently, although, watching news coverage from the Battle of Sokovia, you’d hear your peers whisper rumors about the mysterious Butterfly Girl who had appeared and disappeared right after.

Tony Stark had been approached for a statement on who she was and where she’d come from and if she was a new member of the team, but he hadn’t commented, which you were grateful for.

Aside from that, everything was…well, as normal as it can be when you’re a superhuman, you supposed.

Your brain fried, your eyes burning, you looked up from your textbook only to spot Pietro standing in the doorway of the building. You stared at him for a long time, unsure if he was a hallucination or your eyes playing tricks on you after so many hours staring at your textbooks.

He jogged over as soon as he spotted you, a mischievous look on his face. It was weird, seeing him force himself to move at a normal pace. At a speed which had once been normal to him, but was now much, much slower than he was capable of moving.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, taking your headphones off and setting them on the table, looking up at him.

“I knew you must be getting close to the end of your semester. I…well, I wanted to know if you had made your decision yet. I’m…impatient.” He admitted, causing you to giggle softly. “And I figured…maybe buying you a coffee could help you make your decision a little faster?”

“It certainly couldn’t hurt.” You laughed.

“Alright, perfect.” He grinned. “What do you want? I’ll go get it right now.”

You told him your usual order and he walked to the coffee shop tucked into the on-campus library, retrieving two drinks and bringing them back a few minutes later. You cleared out some of your stuff so he could sit across from you, and so, when you motioned him to the chair, he did.

“What are you studying?”

“Psychology.” You replied, wiping the sleep from your eyes. “God, what time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“Great.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’m not nearly done studying.” You raised your drink to your lips. “Thank you for the coffee, by the way.”

“Of course.” He grinned, resting one hand against his fist and reaching for your hand with the other, which you gave to him, allowing him to fiddle with your smaller fingers. He was a fiddler, you’d noticed. Always had to be moving, even if it was only a little bit. “So…?”

“So what?” You asked, amused at his antics.

“Are you going to come to the compound when you’re done?”

You were quiet for a long time, before you nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I…I think I am.”

Immediately, a smile overtook his handsome features and he gave your hand an excited squeeze. He leaned over the table and captured your lips in a sweet kiss, leaving you stunned for a few seconds afterwards, staring at him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized immediately. “I don’t know why I—”

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him in, pressing your lips onto his again, in a kiss you’d been wanting to give him for over a month. He kissed back passionately, his lips soft and desperate, his scruff tickling you gently.

As soon as you pulled apart, he switched sides of the table, sitting next to you and cupping his hands around your cheeks. He pressed a long kiss to your forehead and then another quick one to your lips, causing your heart to race and the butterflies in your stomach to dance around. And in that moment, you knew that whatever you believed about soulmates and fate and destiny…it all went out the window.

You knew whatever you did from here on out, whatever choices you made or paths you took, it would always lead you straight to Pietro Maximoff. And you couldn’t have been happier about that…

[teyvattherapist]

Another one, set directly after the one where Sandrone finds Childe~ :)

-

Sandrone-- by a feat of miracle-- snuck Ajax into his Academy room and squirreled the boy away into the cramped bathroom while he snuck into the infirmary again to retrieve a first aid kit. When he returned, Ajax had stripped off his coat and scarf, leaving him in a shirt that was more holes than fabric and his bloodstained shorts. Wordlessly, Sandrone handed him an energy bar he'd swiped from the cafeteria and wetted a towel, rubbing away the dirt and grime that layered Ajax like a second skin. As the dirt washed away, the wounds were brought into stark relief. Hundreds of them, layered over each other and crisscrossing Ajax's skin like gaping mouths. Some were fully healed, nothing but thin, silvery lines. Others were an angry red and purple, bruised and swollen around the edges. All had clean cuts, suggesting an expert hand behind the blade. "Who did this?" Sandrone asked. He wasn't really expecting an honest answer, anyway. But Ajax was always one to surprise him. "The Abyss. I fell into a hole in the ground, and I was taken away to somewhere." "Was it scary?" Sandrone didn't look up from his ministrations, choosing to focus on the mangled mess that was Ajax's knees (how hard did he fall?) "It was," Ajax sighed dreamily. "But the things I saw down there... it spoke to me. The Abyss spoke to me, Sulien. It told me things that scared the everloving hell out of me, but I'm grateful to them." "Why?" Sandrone finally looked up. There were a hundred questions packed into that one word. Why are you still alright? Why are you thanking the Abyss? Why do you sound so different?

And from the bloodied fragments of Ajax's face, the eye of the Abyss stared back at him, milky and purple. Ajax smiled, a pristine tear in the mangled visage of a beast rebuilt from the ground up. "So I can protect you."

IM SCREAMING, ALMOND, THIS IS

KJFDSKJDFS??

SULIEN BEING A SNEAKY LIL SHIT IS SO TRUE, THAT'S JUST HOW HE WAS-

BUT THE SO I CAN PROTECT YOU?? SO I CAN PROTECT YOU!! OH MY GOSDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD. THE ?? JFDDF YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW!! I KNOW YOU DON'T KNOW THE LOFE, BUT THAT FITS SO WELL IM SCREAMING

as promised. Part two of Desiderium under the cut.

Another nightmare, another sleepless night. This nightmare was real though, it wasn’t like his usual ones, the ones where he was bound by chains and forced to- No, he didn’t want to think about those. His mind wandered to the latest one. He had given thought to Zhongli’s words, he was longing for somebody. But who? The God had never brought it up again, so he didn’t know. It had to be Lumine right? She was pretty, sure. Strong, good with a sword, her eyes were a nice shade of gold. But something still felt off.

He needed to take a walk.. He stopped when he reached the living room, blinking at.. Lumine? Asleep on his couch? The blonde stirred and pushed herself up some, blanket falling around her shoulders. “Sandrone? Ah- your mask- I- Sorry.” She averted her eyes and Sulien realised he wasn’t wearing his mask. This was his house! Of course he wasn’t wearing his mask. He cleared his throat.

“I thought I heard voices.” Ajax commented from the hallway, hair messier than ever from sleep. “I hope it's alright I invited Lumine to stay with us while she’s in Liyue Harbour. It's closer than the inn.” Ajax explained, seeing the panicked body language only he could understand on his fellow harbinger made him feel bad that he forgot to bring it up. Paimon snored away on the armchair, clearly unbothered by it all.

Without his mask, without his gloves, his scars and face on display. He felt uncomfortable. Incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m going for a walk.” Sulien pivoted and made a beeline for the entrance. Lumine rubbed her sleep riddled eyes, a small yawn escaping her as she looked up at Ajax who was busy staring at the archway into the entrance.

The door slammed shut.

“I’ve only known him for a month or so but,” she yawned, “I take it this is abnormal?” She sat up properly, tightening the blanket around her though. Liyue evenings could get quite cold. Ajax nodded his head in response to her question. Abnormal indeed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such an influx of emotion. Perhaps when they were kids? That was probably it.

Sulien breathed in the fresh air, late at night, he didn’t need his mask, he didn’t need to be his rank. He could just be another nameless person in the streets, he preferred it this way. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants as he walked down the streets. Very few people were out and about so late at night, but he enjoyed watching them. A ghost of a smile on his lips as he watched lovers enjoying a late night getaway or a tired sailor returning home late.

But despite his usual late night activity that often cleared his mind, his mind began to fog once more. Trailing back to his dream, it wasn’t even that bad, especially compared to the usual ones. But being abandoned in a dream, he supposed, tied into the feelings he had been having recently. The stabbing pain in his poor heart, the squeezing of his lungs, stripping his body of blood and air.

There was no way it was about Lumine though. He didn’t feel anything when he looked at her except the pain, there was nothing underneath. He sighed, finding himself at the docks. He looked out on the dark water, lilac eyes searching the depths for answers. He furrowed his brows, all he could think of when he looked at the water, all he was reminded of.. Just one thing.

Ajax.

Sulien shook his head, no, he shouldn’t think of Ajax of all people. He couldn’t, that wasn’t allowed as far as he was aware. Well no relationship was allowed in general, he was their puppet after all, he couldn’t have any strings except to Her. But still.. This seemed somehow worse. His heart lurched at the thought and he hissed in pain, bringing his hand up to his chest, scarred fingers digging into the black fabric of his shirt.

All the books he had read, all the research he did. None of it had any answers for this. And he wondered why he felt wrong. Sulien sighed, sitting on the edge of the docks, legs dangling above the water. Ajax seemed happy with Lumine either way, right? They were much cuter together. Sulien never really belonged anyways, an outsider looking in on everybody else. He sighed, leaning back on his arms.

There were footsteps on the dock behind him and he tensed his body, ice already forming in his fingers. Then the familiar scent of cologne hit him and he watched as Ajax sat down on the docks beside him, wrapped up in Sulien’s coat of all things. Sulien’s heart hurt and he looked out at the water, it was becoming so frequent that it was more of a dull ache. Ajax deserved better than him, better than some man who couldn’t give him what he wanted.

“Talk to me.” Ajax whispered, dull eyes trained on the ocean. “You’re hurting and I want to be there this time.. I wasn’t.. I wasn’t last time.” The man hesitated, pulling one knee up and rested his arm against it. Sulien wished nothing more than for the waves to take him away, drown him until there was nothing left. He could not tell the man beside him how he felt, it was wrong. It wasn’t fair.

“I’m just sick, I’ll be fine.” Sulien manipulated his voice so he sounded more hoarse, as if to hammer in the point that it was nothing more than some freak illness. “We have field work tomorrow, you should go back home and sleep. I’ll walk you back.” Sulien stood and Ajax slowly followed him. But before Sulien could head off the docks, Ajax grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

“Please talk to me when you feel ready.” Sulien merely smiled, one of the ones that Ajax knew was fake and full of lies. But the ginger accepted it in the moment.

-

Sulien sighed as he summoned his claymore, flipping the massive weapon in one hand. The conversation from the day before played in his head, over and over. But he had work to do now. Why did Ajax care? What did he mean when he said he wasn’t there last time? Sulien swung his weapon, the frostbitten blade slicing clean through the arm of the Ruin Guard. He didn’t expect to be smacked by the automaton’s other arm, he barely protected himself with a wall of ice.

“Sandrone, pay attention!” Ajax called, utterly confused on why his colleague was so lost in thought. Ajax ripped apart his bow, the hydro blades forming as he slashed at the ruin guard. It was a simple side mission, really. Destroy the ruin guard near the skirmisher camp. Easy peasy between the two of them. Hell even alone, just one of them probably could have done it. But it was rare they both were allowed into the field together.

Sulien froze the ruin guard and Ajax’s daggers turned back into his bow, he nocked an arrow and drew his string back. Right through the core, bullseye. “Alright that’s that!” Ajax’s bow dematerialised as the automaton fell. There was a whirring nearby and Sulien narrowed his eyes, Ajax didn’t seem to hear it. But he did.

A wall of ice protected Ajax from the incoming missiles of another automaton. Sulien barely dodged the drill of a ruin hunter. Why were there so many all of a sudden? Ajax easily flipped out of the way of the hit of the ruin guard that had attacked him, sliding back to where he had been when fighting the first one. His bow appeared in his hand and he got into position again. “Tartaglia! How many did the Skirmishers report?” Sulien questioned as blocked an attack with his claymore.

His arms shook as the hunter tried to keep cutting downwards with its long sword-like attachment. He had to yield, ducking underneath it. Ajax bent down on his perch, pointing his bow upwards he released multiple hydro arrows into the air. “They only reported one ruin guard! There was no mention of multiples, let alone a hunter.” Ajax called back as another hydro arrow appeared between his fingers.

Now underneath it the ruin hunter decided this was the time to use lasers. Sulien barely constructed the dome around himself in time, manipulating the frost in the air and creating a solid ice dome. A fourth automaton had Ajax seething, how in the hell did their subordinates miss this? When the one he had been fighting slammed its hand onto Ajax’s perch he used its arm as a bridge, bow turning into a polearm.

The ice around Sulien melted but before he could react a second ruin hunter was slamming into him, sending him flying backwards. “Sulien! Careful!” Ajax called, stabbing his polearm into the core of the ruin guard. Sulien got back up, dodging out of the way of one of the hunters. He ran for his claymore, weaving between various attacks as quickly as he could while Ajax struggled with the ruin guard.

Sulien picked his claymore back up and adjusted his grip on the weapon, he slashed at the legs of the ruin guard Ajax was battling, sending the automaton to the ground, the whirring of its body stopping. Two ruin hunters left- Sulien turned around and was faced with three. What in the world- “Something is summoning them here, Tartaglia. This is abnormal.” Sulien adjusted his grip on his blade, peering through the new crack in his mask. He’d have to fix it again.

A bright light beside him blinded him and Sulien hissed as he turned away from Ajax. He didn’t really have time to focus on the transformation as he shielded the both of them from the incoming missiles. A wall of ice reinforced with vines splintered and exploded, the shards turning into snowflakes as they fell from it. At least the wall had lasted against the missiles.

While Sulien thoroughly distracted one of the ruin hunters, Ajax focused on the other two, he brought his hand down, summoning multiple thunderbolts onto one of the ruin hunters, causing it to collapse to the ground, stunned from the electricity. His bow turned into a water spear as he dashed forward, the water from his weapon spraying the automaton, thoroughly frying it. Sulien’s claymore became encased in ice once more, and the ruin hunter he had to deal with was down for the count.

Ajax turned his attention to the last ruin hunter, turning in time to watch the missiles coming at him. He used his ability to blink, reappearing closer toSulien who was looking worse for wear quite frankly. Ajax lunged forward once more, a wheel of electrified water surrounding the ruin hunter, tightening on it. Sulien stepped forward, releasing a blast of ice that froze the machine, causing it to fall from its awkward frozen position, shattering upon contact on the ground. Ajax was beaming, still in his Abyss form but he let himself actually touch the ground rather than float and he turned towards Sulien.

Sulien's claymore dug into the stone and he used it to keep himself up. Ajax closed the distance between them, his weapon floating beside him. Sulien collapsed onto his knees, the large weapon giving out underneath his weight and clattering to the stone floor of the ruin. Funny.. This didn't hurt as much as the heart problems had been hurting.. Life was funny that way. "Hey, hey what happened?" Ajax shifted back, he was exhausted from the fight and using foul legacy. His eyes trailed down to where Sulien's hand was pressed against his side. Ajax gripped the man's hand, pulling it back. The dark green of his palm stained even darker.

"The ruin hunter hit me." Sulien's head hung low, the mask he wore finally giving out, falling to the stone floor, the crack that had started to form fully breaking through the fragile mask. Ajax wished that Sulien didn't look so void, maybe it could help him assess the extent of the wound. Ajax helped Sulien out of the coat he wore, discarding the heavy material onto the ground. The touch was electrifying to Sulien, whose heart only clenched more. So many things unsaid.. But even now, he figured, he didn't deserve the right to say them.

Ajax pulled the man's shirt up, inspecting the wound. It was bad. Really bad. Sulien didn't even flinch when the man used his hydro vision to try and get rid of some of the blood to see better. "I never wanted this." Sulien mumbled as he stared up at the sky. Yes that much was true, Sulien never wanted to be on the battlefield. He was not a warrior. At one time he wanted to be a scholar, he wanted to teach. All of that ripped away with his memories. This was the end Ajax wanted, surrounded by bodies on the battlefield. Ajax ripped the banner he wore, pressing the fabric against the wound.

"Sulien, keep your eyes open, okay? I'll get you help." Would he be strong enough to carry Sulien and his weapon all the way back to Liyue Harbour? Sulien laughed, it was bitter though and it made Ajax's heart hurt. They both had so many things left unsaid. Ajax grunted as he lifted Sulien, the man hadn't listened. Though, when did he ever listen, Ajax mused. The harbinger had to use foul legacy again, there was no way he'd be able to get from the ruins all the way back to the harbour. The warm blood on his hands made the decision for him.

The stares he got as he moved through Liyue Harbour meant nothing to him, he kept Sulien's coat over the man in question, shielding his face and wound from the general public. The claymore in his free hand as he quickly moved through the streets. There were so many things Ajax hadn't said, so many things he felt, so many things he wanted to do. He gripped the man in his arm tighter.

Ajax kicked the door open, much to the surprise of Zhongli and his guests who watched as the large abyssal creature ducked to get through the doorway. Ajax dropped the claymore in the entrance way, letting the weapon clatter to the ground. He then shifted back, all but falling to his knees, Sulien’s still body rolling from his arms. Ajax slammed his hand into the ground as he tried to push himself back up.

“Help, help him please.” But he found himself unable to get up, breathing too unsteady, his own wounds catching up with him as the adrenalin was all but gone. Zhongli dropped his teacup, moving quickly he picked up Sulien, bringing him further into the house. At least Ajax could rest now, leaning his head against the hallway wall.

“Lumine, go get Baizhu please. Paimon, could you bring me the medical kit from the kitchen?” Zhongli lowered Sulien down onto the couch, pulling the fabric away from the wound the God grimaced. Lumine nodded, stepping over Ajax to get out the door as fast as she could. Paimon also listened, despite her small frame she managed to drag the medical kit into the living room. Zhongli peeled his gloves off and rolled up his sleeves as he tried to stop the flow of blood now staining his furniture.

-

“He should recover if he doesn’t get an infection. But do you think it is wise to treat Fatui? One less Harbinger may be-”

“I appreciate your concern, but Sandrone is a good friend no matter his occupation. He can’t help his work. Thank you for coming. Have a good night Baizhu.” Zhongli shut the door soon after and then returned to the living room. Sulien was asleep on the couch, a thin blanket covering his lower half while his torso was wrapped in multiple bandages. Ajax, meanwhile, was sitting on the ground, holding Sulien’s hand, head resting against the couch.

“They look kinda cute.” Paimon’s whisper was absolutely not a whisper, but at least she tried as she floated between Zhongli and Lumine, a smile on her face despite the fact it was two harbingers in front of her. She couldn’t know, there was no way for her to know what the two men in front of her have been through. Both alone and together. The scars could give her a hint. But that was it, and she was too naive to get it. And so to her, they were just bloodsoaked warriors who fought in the name of something she did not understand.

To Zhongli though, he’d seen this story play out thousands of times throughout history, and all he could muster was a frown, especially as his eyes traced the scars on Sulien's bare chest. As he retraced their previous conversations, he had first thought maybe it was Lumine. But as he watched the way Ajax nearly killed himself for the man. Zhongli sighed softly. What a tragic position to be in indeed.

“I’ll bring him home. Thank you for helping.” Ajax stood slowly, wincing at the pain he felt. He was in a bad state himself. Lumine held out the tattered coat, the black and navy fabric stained in hidden crimson. Ajax took it, wrapping it around Sulien before hoisting him up with a grunt. Sulien stirred in his arms but remained asleep. “I’ll pick up his claymore tomorrow.” Ajax couldn’t carry the weapon right now.

“Be safe.”

-

Sulien blinked at the ceiling of his bedroom. It was light outside, but the room was dark, the curtains drawn shut. His side hurt like hell, the events of what happened melding into his fragmented memory though, and he couldn’t quite recall at the moment. He felt weight shift in the bed beside him and he tensed immediately. There were very few he’d ever let close enough to him who-

“I know you’re sleeping but..” Ajax started with a soft sigh and Sulien promptly squeezed his eyes shut and evened out his breathing as if he were sleeping. “I think I know why you’ve been sick lately.. It’s the same reason why I’m sick.” Sulien wanted to furrow his brow as he quickly grew confused but opted to continue pretending he was asleep.

“I thought spending time with Lumine would take my mind off of you but it didn’t.” So he had been doing it on purpose. “Lumine is nice and all. But she’s not you.” Sulien could feel Ajax’s warm hand against his cold one, his long slender fingers playing with the scarred skin of Sulien’s hand. “I just don’t want to ruin the friendship we have if you don’t feel the same. So I tell you when you’re asleep like a coward.” Ajax sighed to himself. “This is so pathetic of me.” He mumbled.

“And then it’s my fault you’re hurt, they were my subordinates and my mission.” Ajax’s voice cracked and he didn’t even try to hide it. Though, Sulien supposed when you’re talking to somebody who is asleep, there’s nothing to hide. “All I do is fail you, what kind of friend am I? If I can’t even be a good friend, how am I supposed to be a good enough lover to tell you how I feel?” Ajax intertwined their fingers, but his touch was so hesitant. His hand was so warm, too.

“You say it all the time.. We’re just pawns in all of this.. This is one choice I have control over in this mess and yet I can’t even make it. You deserve so much more.” Ajax pulled his hand away and Sulien missed the comforting warmth. “You deserve somebody who can help heal those wounds, not.. A bloodthirsty monster like me. Whew, okay.. That helped. Good job Ajax.” Ajax mumbled to himself, a soft sigh of relief now that the weight was off of his chest.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Ajax sat up, dull eyes wide as he looked down at Sulien whose eyes were still closed. “I don’t really know how love is supposed to feel. But I think I feel it.” The man sighed, he didn’t know very much it would seem. “Could I have your hand back? I like how warm you are.” Sulien finally opened his eyes to Ajax staring at him, a range of emotions on the ginger’s face. Huh.. Had he always had that many freckles on his face? Cute.

“How much did you hear?!”

“All of it.” Ajax inhaled sharply, panic setting in. Sulien reached out, grabbing Ajax’s hand, warm. “You deserve somebody who understands the things they are feeling. And I’m not that. But I can try to learn..” Sulien cleared his throat, it hurt to speak but he couldn’t really remember the last time he had. He must have been hit pretty hard. “Te-” he hesitated, looking away from Ajax’s shocked expression and out the window. “Teach me.”

Ajax settled back down on the bed, intertwining their fingers once more. “Okay.. I’ll teach you.”

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

PART I | PART II | PART III

concept: a collection of happenings, but there do happen to be a lot of references to the other parts. it’s just plotless fluff at this point. the slowest of slow burns. there will be many more parts. this is your moving in – finally – and the welcome party that follows.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: a lot of teasing, ice cream, dirty thoughts, and a touch of sexual frustration.

author’s note: so this is part four, and we finally have some mackie and stan action! also, because i believe in all ice cream flavour superiority, i have left a little “choose your own response” thing. select whichever one fits you as the reader :)

“Is that the last of it?”

“I think so.” You were breathless from the move, boxes covering almost every viable flat surface of your new bedroom.

Chris had himself a rather nice house up on the Hollywood Hills, and through one of the many windows, you glimpsed the shimmering reflection of a spacious pool. The residence boasted three bedrooms, and now one was yours. It was enough to make your head spin.

“I’ll let you get settled, then,” Chris smiled, his hand finding your shoulder in a gesture that suggested nothing more than friendship – one which your body reacted to as something more. His hand was warm, and you hoped he didn’t notice the goosebumps that rose on your arms at his very touch. The scent of him invaded your nostrils, utterly intoxicating.

You folded your arms across your chest hoping to disguise the sudden gooseflesh. There was something about him that made your hair stand on end, but in a purely unadulterated good way – some kind of magnetic energy that made you want his hands encompassing every inch of your body, committing it to his memory. When he retracted his hand, you hoped he hadn’t seen the slump of your shoulders in soft disappointment.

He had.

And if you had been paying more attention to him, and not your own suddenly raging hormones, then you wouldn’t have missed the smirk that quirked his lips at the visible effect he appeared to have on you.

“Don’t take too long, though,” he added by the doorway. The mere glimpse you caught of his cheekbones in profile had your breath stuttering erratically, even more so than the weight of your neatly packed boxes ever hoped to achieve. “We have a welcome party to get to in a few hours.”

——————

The welcome party, you were to discover later, was a party of two – just you and your cab thief – to be later joined by two of his friends who happened to be in L.A.

You banished any and all thoughts of it being a date or not this time, and found yourself much more put at ease by it once you had set your resolve. You were his friend – barely even that, if you would let yourself admit it – nothing less, nothing more. And what type of date would it be with his friends there, in any case?

So outfit choice came easy. If you were to be living together, he would inevitably become accustomed to you looking borderline homeless at times, and should the occasion call for it, like an absolute goddess the next. And so your selection of clothing came effortless, settling for something in between: a homeless goddess.

You didn’t know where Chris was taking you, so the selected aesthetic happened to be minimalistic makeup and a black jumpsuit that could either be dressed up or down, but looked classy all the same. You decided to dress it down – pairing it with a pair of old worn in Docs you had on hand – and one look at him – as he waited patiently for you on the couch – you knew you had made the perfect choice.

He had his legs crossed, ankle balancing on knee as he bounced his leg subconsciously. Dodger’s head was in his lap as he absentmindedly petted him. His legs were clad in dark wash jeans, tailored to fit him perfectly, and his torso sported a dark blue button up under a brown leather jacket. His hair was slicked back – either from a shower or from styling product, only time would tell.

Hell, he’d even shaved for this, his face appearing much more boyishly charming than anything now.

It took a moment for you to register that Steve Rogers and Chris Evans were two different people, what with him sat there in an ensemble he must’ve stolen from the costume department.

It was Dodger that noticed you first. He had taken quite the liking to you when you first arrived – three hours ago, to be precise – and it had taken almost half an hour to get him to leave your room so you could begin in the tedium of unpacking. He had been practically inconsolable, and had scratched at your door for another ten minutes after until Chris eventually decided to spend some time with him out in the garden to distract him from your loss. You knew you and the boxer were going to be fast friends. Especially now that his tail was pounding furiously in its wagging, beating the couch cushions into submission. It was then that Chris noticed you, too.

He turned his head, and time seemed to slow. A second felt drawn into an hour as he took you in. There was an imperceptible, intranslatable crease in his brow before it slackened and his face broke into a soft, boyish grin. “Wow,” he said softly.

“Is it… too much? I can go change if–”

“No!” He cleared his throat, his hurried response jarring enough to make even Dodger cock his head. “No, you look perfect. Beautiful. Great.”

His smile was contagious and you found your face splitting into a delighted beam. “You’re one to talk. You clean up nice, Captain Armani.”

He rose from the couch. Dodger followed him off to bound up to you and give your hand a soft lick. Under his breath, you could hear Chris scoff at the Captain Armani tease. “You ready to go?”

“Um, yeah… What about Dodger though? Will he be alright?”

“He’ll be fine. We won’t be out long anyways,” Chris winked – more so to Dodger than you, but that did nothing to stave off the shiver that ran unbidden down your spine. “I promise.”

——————

Chris took you to a restaurant first – nothing fancy, and very clearly nothing too romantic, that was certain; corroborated by the subtle sink of your heart – before you both began your pleasant evening stroll, vaguely in the direction of the “hidden gem” dive bar him and a few of his friends had found when he’d moved to L.A.

It would be an unfaithful recounting of events if you said it hadn’t been a bit awkward at first, but soon enough, you’d both found your footing, and the quick witted teasing and fast fire rapport was almost second nature to the both of you.

“Favourite Disney character, and if you say you don’t have one, you can find somewhere else to live.”

The mirth in his eyes suggested he was joking, but there was an edge to his voice that said otherwise. He was serious to some extent, and for some unfathomable reason, you refused to let him down. Also because you really didn’t have a place to go should this all go sideways. You mentally made a reminder to have a fail safe contingency plan if things got messy – not that they would; you were insistent on that.

“It happens that I’m in luck, then,” you retorted. “Because as it so happens, I have a top five.”

You rattled off your list, loving the way Chris’ smile grew impossibly wider at each name drop.

Your conversation – more a debate on who was the badder bitch: Mulan, Moana, or Elsa – took a natural halt outside a cute hole-in-the-wall ice cream parlour. Suddenly, memories of the first time you met came flooding back.

“Cookies and cream, right?”

He arched a brow in confusion.

“Your favourite ice cream flavour. It was cookies and cream.”

“You remembered.”

It was enough to make you laugh, the surprise in his voice. “Of course I would. You tried to convince me it was the best in the world. Stupidly so, considering [I already am an avid cookies and cream worshipper] // [my allegiances lie with {insert favourite ice cream flavour here}].”

“Yeah, yeah. Do you want some? Before we go and meet Seb and Anthony?”

“Uh, sure,” you shrugged.

He gave you a playful nudge of the elbow and headed to the counter. The order came quick, and soon you were back on your slow crawl to the pub, ice cream already starting to sweat and melt in the sugarcone.

You watched in amusement as Chris all but moaned in ecstasy as he devoured the cookies and cream. The sound was enough to make you moan yourself, but the sight – well, that was a more humourous one to behold. He ate like a starving man, and some dark recess of your mind wondered what else he might be inclined to eat with such passion–

He had caught you staring, and he paused his ministrations. “What?”

“Nothing.” You had tried to stifle your giggle with ice cream, and it had turned into a cough, and now you were outright laughing at him. “Don’t stop on my account, I just think you and your dessert should find a room if you’re going to be so vocal about your pleasure.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want some?” He smirked, offering you his mangled ice cream scoop, half gone already.

“I’ve got my own, I think I’ll survive.” The wink came natural with your response.

“No, really, you should try some.”

“It’s just hard to take you seriously. With all the ice cream on your face.”

He paused, confusion halting his steps. And rightfully so – he still remained immaculate, not a speck out of place. “Where?”

“Right…” – you suddenly grabbed his unsuspecting hand, still clutching his treat, and smeared the icy cold goodness on the side of his cheek – “there!”

Your howl of laughter was short lived as he slowly wiped the ice cream from his face before turning his attention to you. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

It wasn’t menacing by any means, more playful, but when he came at you with his ice cream cone, every intent of menace was there. You were wearing black, after all, and a stain from that cream was going to be glaringly visible for the entire bar excursion.

Easily dodging his attack, you darted to the side and held your own ice cream out, hoping it would keep him at bay. He still advanced, and you knew you were screwed.

So you said fuck it, and ran.

Luckily, you had already been quite close to the bar, and although you wouldn’t be able to tell them where exactly it was should a stranger ask you in passing, you recognized the name on the sign easily enough. Taking one last mournful bite of ice cream, you discarded the rest in a garbage can, it proving more a hindrance to your escape than a good weapon.

Exhilaration flowing through you, peels of laughter leaving your lips, you burst into the bar, hoping you’d be safe. The patrons paid you no mind as you whipped around, eyes cautiously on the door, awaiting your doom.

Chris burst in not soon after you, both of you breathless. He had lost the ice cream along the way too, and with that immediate danger gone, you felt yourself visibly relax.

Among your panting breaths, you chuckled. “Truce?”

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “Truce.”

“Hey, Evans! Over here!”

Both of you turned your attention to the man who spoke. Sat side by side in a booth, waiting for your arrival, was the ever gorgeous Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie, the latter having risen to wave you over.

Your heart stuttered at the sheer bizarreness of it all.

“Holy shit,” you whispered. “How do I look?”

“You look great.” When you gazed up at Chris, there was a softness to his eyes and a gentleness to his smile. It astounded you how playful and teasing he could be one second, and how heartachingly genuine he could be the next. “Except…”

Your eyes widened. “Except?!”

He chuckled, reaching out a tentative thumb. When you didn’t pull away, he proceeded. One, large and wildly beautiful hand resting on your cheek, the thumb grazing your lip, you had to remind yourself that you had just run for your life and that was the reason for your heart threatening to break free from your chest – nothing more. But there they were again, the goddamn goosebumps. You shivered, undetectable to him, but what felt like earthquake tremors to you.

He swiped away the leftover ice cream that had been clinging to your lips, and, without a second thought, brought his thumb to those perfect lips of his. Time seemed to slow as you watched him lick and suck the ice cream off his finger, his eyelids fluttering, long lashes fanning closed.

And then the spell broke as he gave you a reassuring and completely friendly smile, unfazed at all by what had just transpired. “There. Much better.”

——————

Anthony was bewildered. “Wait, so he stole your cab?”

“And you let him?” Seb had paused while chalking his cue.

“She never let’s him forget…” Chris grumbled under his breath, taking a languid sip of his beer.

That earned him a mutual eye roll from you and Sebastian, and a look passed between you.

“What a baby,” you mouthed to him from across the pool table.

“I know!” He mouthed back with a smirk while sinking down to line up his next shot.

After an initial round of drinks, you and the boys eventually found yourselves migrating to the pool table. Anthony and Seb were the only ones playing, having gotten to the bar earlier than you and Chris and were pleasantly buzzed by the time you two had entered. Chris and you decided to sit the first round out, instead opting to drink a little more before.

“And then he followed you into an alleyway and you didn’t kick him in the dick?” Anthony gave Seb a pat on the shoulder in consolation when he missed the shot, but still had his attention focused on you, and the unravelling series of events that had led you to this moment.

Seb, still cursing from his failed shot, straightened from the table. “He would’ve been kicked in the dick the moment he tried to steal my cab, I can tell you that.”

Anthony and Sebastian found your story far more amusing than you ever did, but the more you spoke about it with them, the funnier it became.

“Well, it’s not so bad. I got to meet you guys.” You raised your beer in cheers.

Seb pressed a hand to his heart, mouthing a soft “aaw”, while Anthony, although smiling his adorable gap-toothed grin, rolled his eyes. “Man, get the hell out of here with that sappy shit.”

You laughed, hopping off your bar stool. “Alright, come on, it’s my turn. You’re all fucking it up, it really can’t be that hard…”

——————

Apparently it could be that hard. And you weren’t talking about the team of doubles pool game unfolding in front of you…

You were bent over the pool table, lining up your next shot. And Chris was…

His body was pressed against yours, leaning against you, every bit as warm as you expected, and rock hard with taut muscles that you could feel individually ripple at every movement. The smell of him – something delicious and indescribable – was all around you. Affable hands – leaving a blazing trail of goosebumps in their wake – travelled down to cover your own as he “helped you” play pool.

He was speaking low, directly into your ear, each husky word shiver inducing as every so often his lips would brush the shell of your ear as either he or you shifted.

“Nice and steady. Keep your eye on the ball,” he murmured throatily. The hand that wasn’t assiting your grip on the cue idly fell to land on the dip of your waist, travelling down to rest on the curve of your hip – searing hot through your jumpsuit. “Just like that…”

You involuntarily moved beneathe him, and you felt him stiffen. He cleared his throat, the rasp still tinted in his voice, eyes hooded with something unknown.

He drew back, leaving you cold and wanting – but much more clear headed. It wasn’t entirely lost on you, the way he shuffled uncomfortably, having to adjust his jeans – particularly around the crotch area.

“You know, Evans,” you smirked. “If I needed your help, I would’ve asked for it.”

To punctuate your point, you sank the ball you’d had your eye on, and, in quick succession, sank another.

He watched you, captivated, mouth slightly agape. “I…”

You shot Mackie a wink over the table as you missed the next shot, but managed to position the eight ball right in front of his and Seb’s most favoured pocket, effectively screwing them over. He groaned, but nodded and slow clapped in appreciation of the duplicity. You mockingly curtseyed to him, before handing the cue to Chris for his shot.

“Don’t worry,” Seb said, clapping Chris on the shoulder. “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.”

[illuminated-cowboy]

Stag Serenade

Chapter 1:Take Me Home

Dying is not hard. It never has been, it never will be.

The pain comes before, the anguish of your loved ones, the fear of what lies afterwards. But death, in reality, is as simple as sleeping.

Arthur knew this as he laid down to die. He drew every breath like it was his last, awaiting the inevitable darkness as the sun rose before his eyes.

He had almost believed those tales of your life flashing before your eyes as you pass away. How could anyone know if it was true anyways? Not like anyone had lived to tell the tale.

To live after death, it sounded morbid. But Arthur knew he would live on, in the hearts of those he left behind, through John, through Jack, through Abigail.

He had many regrets, and yet, none of them mattered now.

His eyes closed one final time, his breath growing shallow, his heart slowing down as he prepared to succumb to his illness and his injuries. A comorbidity, he knew he would have kicked that rat’s ass if he wasn’t sick. It would be Micah dying on this mountain had he been a better man sooner, had he thrown Strauss out of camp the moment he found out that he had been lending money to people with no possible way of paying back in a timely manner.

None of that really mattered now, none of it would ever matter again. Arthur righted his wrongs, as much as he could. Perhaps in some cases he only coated ruined lives in a sheet of gold, he hoped at least Mrs. Downes was doing better, despite all the pain and tragedy he had been responsible for.

Arthur’s three final heartbeats rang loud in his ear, the last of his oxygen rich blood pumped through his bloodied face, his ears cold yet burning, a final thump in his chest.

“Hi there.”

With the energy he had felt in his youth, Arthur shot up, bloodshot eyes cleared of redness. The startle seemed to kickstart his heart, he turned around, almost aggravated at the interruption to his rather peaceful death.

“What the hell?”

A man in a top hat and a mustache, striking a similar resemblance to Trelawny, suddenly obscured his vision.

“Goodmorning Arthur,” he spoke with a gentle yet authoritative tone, “lovely day, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Arthur felt a cough coming on, but before he could react, the feeling had faded, “who the hell are you?”

“Who I am is really not important, Arthur. Who you are, that’s important.”

“Nice to know. Can you go away now,” Arthur readjusted and prepared to lay back on the rock, accepting his death once more, “I kind of have some dying to do.”

“Is that so? Is that what you want?”

“No, but I don’t really have a choice.”

The man smiled, “Do you?”

Arthur sighed and slowly rose again, “Yes, I in fact do, tuberculosis if you must be so inclined.”

“Yes of course, from Mr. Downes.”

Arthur shook his head in frustration, “Who the hell sent you? Did Micah tell you to come up here? Finish me off? I got money in my pocket, whatever you want, just take it. Kill me if you want. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

The man shook his head and took a couple steps towards Arthur before squatting down and reaching for Arthur’s pocket. His icy blue eyes looked at the strange man’s hand in confusion, as when he reached for the lone dollar hanging from his pocket, the dying man realized her couldn’t feel a thing.

“Who the hell are you?” He said with a furrowed brow. The man stood upright again and waved the dollar in the shine of the sunrise, turning the crumbled bill into a fresh crisp one with a simple flick of his wrist.

“Consider me an old friend, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur sighed, catching on softly but refusing to believe it. He turned around to look at the rock he had been lying on, only to see his mangled body left behind.

To say his concern was vivid would be an understatement, Arthur jumped to his feet, his nonexistent heart beating a million times a minute.

“That’s just residual, it will fade. Your consciousness is used to feeling, well, human. In your next life you’ll have a bit of a different biology. Best get used to forest life, of course.”

Arthur shook his head, denying the reality of his current predicament, “No no, this is just one of them death bed visions, something or other. You ain’t real, I know you ain’t real.”

The man laughed through his nose, a smile gracing his face as his features said “pity.” “That wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said that, Arthur Morgan.”

“Look, maybe you’re a ghost, or an angel or the devil or whatever. If you don’t wanna tell me then it’s your secret to keep. Let’s get to the point, why are you here?”

“I wanted to give you one final choice on your journey, Arthur. That’s what I do, I give choices.”

“Then what’s this choice?”

“Continue living this life, or move onto the next.”

Arthur was sure this was a deathbed vision now. He chuckled and placed his hands on his physically faded hips, “oh boy, so stay on this road or pick a new one, huh? What a choice. What? I get to be a deer? A Bear? Shit in the woods and get shot at all day?” He chuckled again and looked to the sky, “Don’t sound so different from the last life, do it?”

“If you’d really like to know, you’d be a stag, yes. Your life after that would depend upon the way you lived then, and so on and so forth.”

Arthur raised his arms, “so what was I before then?”

The man tapped his chin, “I believe you were a Shire horse, mister Morgan. Your name was Klaus, and you were shot when your owner was robbed.”

Arthur nodded, “sounds about right.”

“I want to make it clear, usually I’ve finished by now and my client will have been in the next life. I share a bit more with those who seem scared-”

“Scared? I ain’t fucking scared, I welcomed death with open arms until your smart ass dropped into the picture.”

The man shook his head and continued, “the choice is yours, Mr. Morgan. The only catch is, well, you will never get the chance to be a stag, or anything else ever again, if you choose option one.”

The blue-eyed man crossed his arms and giggled to himself, “so you’re saying I won’t get to shit in the woods?”

The man sighed, “I feel you aren’t taking this seriously, Mr. Morgan.”

“Sure then,” Arthur said condescendingly, still refusing to fully believe anything he had just been told, “if it so indulges you, I will continue on living as the man I am, and I’ll keep on plundering and raping and making others miserable just as I always have been.”

The man smiled, “oh Arthur, we both know you never had it in you to rape anyone.”

“I’m sure a lot of people would prefer I did in comparison to what I ended up doing to them.”

He nodded, “so, it’s settled then, Mr. Morgan. Immortality is officially yours.”

“So be it,” Arthur walked back to his corpse, attempting to kick his own foot before sitting back down on his own lap and contemplating just how much longer it would be until blackness closed in and he could officially consider himself dead, “Now you son of a bitch, why don’t you take your philosophical bullshit and-” just as he turned to tell the man off, he was gone.

Arthur sat in silence for a moment, attempting to process what had just occurred. 100% this was a deathbed vision, he had no doubt about it. But he could see with his own baby blues, the sun was still rising, the sky was still growing brighter, the clouds shone with vibrant purity. There was no great black sheet of darkness, there was no fading light, there was no death in all his sight.

Unless, this is death? To walk the world a paling ghost, to see his friends continue living, to watch them die, to see the world change before his aquatic eyes.

He waited, and waited. He got up and paced a bit, his body freezing to the touch, and yet, not stiff.

Arthur looked up and saw, suddenly, the bright blue sky was now fading in a glorious sunset. An entire day had passed, and still his body laid there, slumped against a rock, and his faded see-through figure appeared to be getting more and more transparent with each passing minute.

Suddenly, he heard a crack coming from around the corner, along with a grunt and heavy breathing. He turned around and saw none other than Charles, lifting himself up onto the mountain, sweat beading on his forehead.

“There you are, my friend.”

“Charles!” Arthur shouted. The man looked around, the sound of a wolf’s glorious howl seemingly drowning out his voice.

“Charles, I’m right here!” Arthur stepped right up to him, it would be impossible for him to not see. Instead of embracing his friend, Charles stooped low next to Arthur’s body, holding his hand and bowing his head in silence.

In that swift moment, with his brave persona broken to pieces, Arthur realized what was happening.

He was dead. His spirit, on the other hand, was still living.

His emotional heart took over for his real one, and with fear and agony, he screamed at the top of his ghostly lungs, “Hey! Come back! I didn’t want this, bring me back! Kill me! Make me a deer, I don’t want this!”

He turned again to see Charles lifting his dead body up upon his shoulders, and slowly returning down the mountain, leaving Arthur’s vision within seconds.

Instead of following behind to see his own grave, Arthur turned painfully to the sky, feeling the need to berate God for this awkward situation he had found himself in.

“Is this punishment, huh? For the shitty way I lived my life? Is this hell?!”

“It’s not hell, Arthur.”

He turned again, almost relieved to see the strange man appear once more.

The man took his hat off and shook his head, “you were supposed to lay back down into your body, Arthur.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that, dumbass?”

“I thought it was obvious, but I apparently need to work a bit harder on my hints.”

Arthur nodded, “you think so?”

“You do realize I could have just left you to suffer for eternity, right?”

“Listen, I change my mind, I don’t want this. I don’t want my old tuberculosis body, I don’t want my old life, just make me a deer or whatever and be done with it.”

“You already made your choice Arthur, it’s a choice you can only make once. So, I suggest you go find your body before your only choices become Mr. Cellophane or the Walking Dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a bit for you to chew later on, my friend. Now go find your body, lay down in it, and do not leave until you can move in it again. I can only hold off rigor mortis for so long.” He snapped his fingers and with that, he was gone. Arthur frantically turned around, running in the direction he saw Charles go, deciding in a split second that he’d rather live eternity in a body rather than the alternative, even if he did have to cough every five minutes for all of forever.

It was dark now at this point, and despite looking around for any sign of his friend, Charles had made off quickly with his body. He listened for any sound of digging or further grunting, even the whinny of his Appaloosa, but nothing stuck out.

“Fuck this ghost shit.” Arthur muttered under his breath, “Can’t fly, can’t see through shit, can’t walk through anything, can’t tell my friend not to bury my dead body.” He tried to kick a pebble but failed, falling confused as to why some things seemed impassable but others were not.

“I was supposed to die up there and be done with it. Then fucking God, or Jesus, or Satan or whatever, Lucifer comes and curses me,” he looked up at the stars, directing his anger again to whoever may be listening, “I still don’t believe any of this is real, by the way! I know I’m probably drunk in some saloon or some shit, getting’ the crap beat out of me!”

Whether or not he actually believed that, not even he knew.

Awoooooooo

“Get away!”

Arthur heard the faintest scream of his friend, and knew he was in trouble.

He ran down the mountain, feeling like an eagle flying down as he realized he didn’t have to worry about broken bones or getting hurt. A seven-foot jump felt like nothing. If it weren’t for the whole non-existence thing, he might have picked this instead.

He ran in the direction of snarls and shouting. Charles’ horse whinnied and cried out in the night as the sound of a struggle took place. Arthur came across the scene, a massive grey wolf had his arm in it’s mouth, and Charles was backing away, holding a gun and aiming for its head, not even noticing the two wolves coming behind him.

“Goddamnit Charles, just leave my body, save yourself!” He ran closer, realizing he couldn’t do anything to stop the attack, but knowing he had to try.

There was a saying that animals saw spirits, Arthur was in fact a spirit at this point, the next part of that theory was hoping it was true, and if it was, hoping that they cared enough to leave Charles alone.

He sprinted forward, holding out his arms and screaming as loud as he could, hoping to break whatever sound barrier was between this world and his old one.

The wolves perked up their ears, staring at Arthur plain as day, unsure of whether to attack or to respect his stance and leave.

“Get out! Go!”

The one closer to him snarled, and Charles shot his gun, injuring the wolf that had Arthur’s arm in it’s mouth.

The wolf ripped at the flesh sharply and took off running, Charles turned to see the two wolves with a mixture of terror and anger in their eyes.

With a strong breeze, a heavenly fog erupted from the ground, coating Arthur in a powder made of light. Charles covered his mouth in fear and surprise, and behind him came a white stag, large and powerful with golden horns and glowing blue eyes.

“Arthur!” Charles called as the spiritual scene took place. Arthur turned to see him after he had called, seeing his eyes weeping as he witnessed the ghost holding out his arms against the wolves, the stag pierced his mighty hoof through the dirt and let out a low rumble, terrifying like an earthquake but sweet as a song. It sent chills down his spine, and the wolves tucked their tails and ran as far as they could away from the ethereal sight.

Within a moment, the image was gone. Arthur’s silhouette faded with a second gust of wind, and the man was alone again.

Charles fell to his feet, unable to believe the sight he had just seen. But it was real, the wolves had seen him too, they saw the massive buck, and they would have killed him had they not.

“Arthur, if you can hear me,” he looked up to the sky, frantically seeking a sign as he wiped a tear from his eye, “thank you.”

Arthur smiled upon his friend, relieved that he could do something to help, but not even knowing just how he did it. He felt as though he had someone to thank as well, he just didn’t know who yet.

“Tell the others that I miss them too, if you can.”

“If I see them, I’ll let them know.” Arthur said, knowing he couldn’t be heard.

Though his valiant act was well-needed, albeit unexpected, he couldn’t stop Charles from digging him a proper grave. And he didn’t want to, he knew it was his way of saying thank you to the spirit who just saved his life.

So, he watched as Charles took his time, paying respect to his body, and finally, lowering him down into the ground. He wondered away and within a few minutes, he returned with a bouquet of beautiful flowers, and laid them down on the large hump of dirt.

Arthur sighed, trying not to shed a tear at the site. He never felt as cared for as he did now, after he had already died. If he were still alive, with all his human abilities, perhaps he’d already be crying.

“I will be back to give you a nice marker, I’ll build it myself, I promise.”

“I guess there’s no way of convincing you to dig me up now, is there?”

“Thank you again. You were well loved, even if… well… I loved you. You were my brother.” Charles walked away and back to his horse, galloping off into the night.

Arthur watched him riding away, waving an unseen goodbye, unsure if he could return and explain that he was still alive, once he figured out how to get his body back, that is.

[twiceblackvelvet]

Purgatory

TW// mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts

To say that Kim Jisoo has had very little in life would be an understatement. Whilst most people grew up in loving households, parents doting on them every waking second of the day and teaching them life lessons in preparation for adulthood, Jisoo was forced to fend for herself at every turn.

The care system is a broken one and quite frankly, the number of foster homes she had been a part of and then ultimately removed from was never-ending. Some of them pretentious and with unrealistic ideals of who they thought she should be, none of them ever right. The others barely able to keep a firm grip on their own lives never mind hers too. 

It was only a matter of time before she decided to stop trying with the fake parent’s people kept trying to give her and live out her teenage years among what society would consider burdens. However, the addicts, the desperate, and the people without homes all offered her a sense of belonging. After all, they too likely come from the same place as her. Broken home after broken home will quickly make you believe that no home at all is the better alternative. Dysfunctional has a craving for the chaotic. 

It’s been this way for a few years now, no longer considered a child of this earth, instead, a full-grown adult who should have responsibilities, career prospects, friends to take funny selfies with, a life, essentially. But none of those things exist when you’re stuck in Purgatory. 

That’s what everyone calls it. Purgatory. The area is known for its increased number of people living in doorways or alleys. Sleeping near houses belonging to those of social status and wealth. Being stepped on both figuratively and literally every morning by them and their mammoth security detail who scurry everyone away. A blight on humanity is what she and the others here are considered and it’s something that those whose most difficult decision in life is whether today is Gucci or Dior don’t wish to see. But there’s nowhere else for them to go. So when they drive their fancy cars down the street, they’re forced to see life from the opposite end of the spectrum whether they like it or not. 

Not that any of them ever spare her a second glance. Simply raising their perfectly sculpted noses in the air and turning a blind eye. A single drop of their wealth could bring an end to what she’s sure they call a “plague” on society and yet, their crummy little hands keep a firm hold on their expensive tiny purses that are worth more than her entire life. 

It’s almost spring, the weather hasn't been so bad recently. The harsh conditions of winter have passed without claiming her life, though, a very small part deep down wishes that it had so she could be put out of her misery without having to do anything to cause it. Not that she hasn’t tried, multiple times in fact, but things just never want to go her way. Thus, the air continues to fill her lungs, her pulse remains strong, and the idea of attempting again seems futile.

The latest “spot” if you can call it that, where she has been staying, has recently become unavailable, however. Fences being built in place especially to stop her and a few others lingering in the alleyway between two buildings. It’s a shame, truly. Though it wasn’t the warmest area she’d laid her head, it was comfortable and spacious enough for her to share with some of the friends she’s made. 

However, once again, she’s picking up the holed, stained blanket that is barely even holding itself together nowadays, and moving on to find somewhere else to get some rest. The only time she ever feels peace is when her eyes are jammed firmly shut and her brain escapes to the dreamland. Ironically, none of the illusions her mind creates ever include her escaping this life, but rather, delving further into the horrors of the underworld. 

She drags her feet slowly across the pavement, head down watching her small steps, idly kicking a pebble along with her whenever one ends up before her mangled, dirty shoes. That is until her forehead ends up pressed against a soft material that propels her body back a few places. 

“Watch where you’re going, freak!” The mouth, belonging to the body she just collided with shouts abruptly causing her head to snap upward and meet their eyes with her own. Well, she would do that if they weren’t concentrating wholly on the phone screen in their hand. 

Cascading dark hair frames the girl’s face. Her eyes covered by the biggest pair of sunglasses Jisoo has ever seen. Her features appear small and delicate, though Jisoo shifts her focus to her outfit and recognizes quickly that this is another of those rich kids she despises. Her coat lined with fur and designer shoes a dead giveaway that they are from two different worlds. In fact, she’s amazed this girl hasn’t called her daddy to request her coat be put into quarantine to rid it of all of her homeless bacteria, or burn it. 

“You… You  aren’t even watching where you’re going... brat.” She offers in retort, however, the girl has already pushed past her and carried on walking by the time she stutters them out. She simply raises her middle finger over her own shoulder and carries on staring at her phone. 

It’s people like that, Jisoo thinks, who will somehow end up in positions of power in the future when their brain cells are likely so fried from the amount of time they spend staring at themselves, they can’t focus on anything else. 

A few blocks down and finally, there are buildings that aren’t blocked off with the same fencing that just destroyed her last “home” if you can call it that. Shops line most of the street, restaurants mostly. The windows filled with decorations and lighting hoping to entice people in on their way home from work or simply enjoying a family outing.

Out of curiosity, Jisoo stops in front of one of them to read through the menu that is stuck to the window. Words she isn’t even capable of reading beneath the food item, describing what goes into the recipe, however, she tries her best to make out what she can from it all.

A couple dining inside and sitting close to the window begin to watch her, or rather judge, having noticed her torn clothing, a dirty appearance, and unkempt hair. She ignores their staring eyes though a big part of her wants to burst through the restaurant door and yell at them for having no manners. Money can bring you everything in the world and yet they still choose to be rude, she thinks.

However, the door ends up opening before her anyway. A tiny bell rings above it to signal that someone has pulled it open and small steps reveal shoes that are clean, an apron covering casual clothing, hair tied in a messy bun that makes for a face that is coated in sweat but clean. 

Whoever this is, they are not one of those snobs she’s grown used to dealing with. There’s no way any of them would allow themselves to be caught dead looking like they’re actually doing a day’s work and not just inputting numbers into a computer repeatedly. 

“Hey, are you coming inside? The special menu is just about to end,” you ask, voice trembling slightly under Jisoo’s intense gaze hovering up and down your frame. “It’s um, on the house, for… you know…” 

She does know. Many places had recently begun to offer warm meals to those who are homeless in the area during certain hours of the day, however, she’d never ventured into any of the places offering it. Pity isn’t exactly an easy thing to deal with, especially when you have the false sense of pride that Jisoo does. Nor does she wish for the actual paying diners to judge her.

“I was just looking but thanks.” 

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other which causes you to notice the holes in her shoes. Despite hoping you’d convinced her to take up the free meal, she starts to shuffle away slowly. With her back turned toward you, your first instinct is to dash inside, grab anything easy to pick up, and hand it to her away from the eyes overseeing this exchange. Without even realizing, your body had already begun to move to do just that.   

Heavy footsteps that seem to be getting faster can be heard behind Jisoo from your feet. She turns around lazily to look over her shoulder to come face to face with a takeout box full to the brim with food as well as two different sets of utensils. 

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?” Her face is stern yet curious as she speaks. 

“I don’t want you to go hungry is all.” 

“Wow, thanks so much for the concern.” Sarcasm, you think, though you’re sure at this moment if either of you are the condescending one it would be you hoisting the food up into her face. Thus you lower the box toward her hands instead. She reluctantly takes it. 

“I don’t need these.” She offers back the extra set of utensils. Just as your hands grasp around them, she pulls them back toward herself instead which pulls your body along with it. The two of you now inches away from each other until she steps back almost out of instinct. “Sorry, um… would you…” 

Her eyes dart between you and the extra utensils a few times before you finally figure out what it is she’s attempting to ask. 

“Sure, I’ll eat with you.” The gracious smile that presents itself on her face is one of the best things you’ve ever born witness to, however, an idea presents itself in your head and before you can think twice, the words are already blurted out. “But, please, come back to the restaurant. I own the apartment upstairs, you can shower and grab some clean clothes if you want. “

Her features contort into uncertainty, confusion, and suspicion all within a matter of seconds. You assume because she’s either never had such an offer or hasn’t for a long time. It’s easy to forget what basic humanity feels or looks like if you’re not used to receiving it from people. To your surprise, she does turn around and even manages to open the door and step inside for herself this time without hesitation. 

The same couple who were sat by the window is now at the counter to pay for their meal, heads low as she passes by them to sit at a table toward the back of the restaurant. You join her, sitting in the seat opposite her own. She places the tray of food between you both and immediately begins to engulf it. You simply pick at the sides and allow her to take in as much as possible. She doesn’t notice, though, you’re glad her only focus is on lining her stomach. 

“My name is Y/N.” you interrupt her mid forkful of vegetables. She simply nods in response until she’s finished chewing. 

“Jisoo.” she bluntly offers. 

“It’s nice to meet you Jisoo.” 

No other words are exchanged between you both. She continues to eat until her stomach can’t possibly handle it anymore. You watch as she simply looks around the entire room, noticing every little detail to the walls and paying close attention to the old television in the corner of the room. Her eyes are dark and lifeless as they try to follow along with the characters acting out a scene in the drama playing. 

One of the servers grabs ahold of the apron you pull off from around your waist and places it behind the counter as you stand abruptly blocking Jisoo’s view of the screen. She shifts her body to look around you and back to the television but then up to meet your eyes once she realizes you aren’t moving.

“Come on, I’ll show you where the shower is.” 

You point her toward a door behind the counter and she reluctantly stands to join you, though not before she takes one last glance toward the television to see the characters involved in what looks like a heated argument. 

The two of you head up the flight of stairs above the restaurant to the quaint apartment that doesn’t look as if it has been touched for quite some time now. Once more, Jisoo’s eyes pay attention to all of her surroundings, not that there’s anything on these walls nor is there a television playing. Instead, she runs her hand along with the wallpaper that is barely clinging to the walls. Her fingers tracing the outlines of the floral design. 

A small cough is all you let out to break her concentration to direct her to another door.

“Come on, there should be some spare clothes in here for when you’re done.” However, she remains still. “It’s just here.”

You can sense the nervousness radiating from her despite the distance between you both as she stands at one end of the hallway and you at the other. Her fingers removed from the wall now so that her other hand can fiddle with them idly. 

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice quiet, almost inaudible. 

The question perplexes you at first, why wouldn’t anyone wish to help her? How could someone see a young woman in such a dire state and simply ignore her? However, not everyone shares these thoughts, nor would everyone invite a total stranger in to use their shower after only meeting them seconds ago. 

“Call it my good deed for today, whatever helps you accept it.” She nods and slowly begins to walk toward you. 

The two of you spend several minutes hunting through the drawers and wardrobe for clothes that not only fit Jisoo but will keep her warm. She settles on a black hoody that you don’t recall ever seeing previously, a white fitted t-shirt, and some old jeans that are long worn out. You offer her an old scarf and coat, however, she refuses to give up her own torn one. She spends a few seconds simply feeling the fabric between her finger and thumb before placing her new items under her arm and leaving the room without a word. 

Following her, you find her standing awkwardly in the hallway once more, frozen in place. 

“The bathroom is this way.” She strides beside you but quickly dashes in front of you and into the bathroom before you can even tell her how to use the shower. Instead, you’re forced to shout it from behind the door she also locks. “There should be a switch on the side of the wall here, I’m going to  turn it on but be careful, the water will be cold at first.” 

Flicking the switch, you can hear the water begin to run out of the showerhead and hit the bottom of the bath. Deciding that it’s probably strange to stand outside the door as she washes up, you head back toward the bedroom the two of you were both previously in. It’s been a long time since you’ve stepped foot in here, and yet, floods of memories hit the second you’re alone in there. 

Moving out on your own, opening up the restaurant with her, it all feels like a made-up fallacy. Especially since she’s no longer here to live it out with you, instead finding her own dream to live out, alone. However, it had all been worth it in the end. A small picture of her and you sit coated in dust atop one of the side tables, the corners slightly curled and beginning to tatter but your smiles ever-present. A lifetime ago now, or so you’d like to delude yourself into believing. 

It’s strange how despite having not thought about her, or anything to do with her for the last two years, you can still remember the very day in which the photo was taken as if it was yesterday. 

“Who is she?” The words startle you out of your thoughts so much so that you throw the picture frame in the direction of the voice, just barely missing Jisoo’s head, hitting the wall behind her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It’s fine, I just didn’t think you’d be done so quick.” You try to catch your breath as you watch her dry her hair in her clean clothes. 

“It’s been like an hour.” She points toward the clock on the wall in the hallway. It has indeed been an hour of you simply reminiscing and staring at one of the biggest mistakes you ever made.  “Do you have a dryer?” 

“Yeah, um… It’s in the other room, come on.” You brush past her, quickly picking up the now smashed picture frame as well as the fragments that had bounced across the floor and place it into one of the drawers in your own bedroom whilst retrieving the hairdryer for Jisoo. 

She quickly finds a socket to plug it into and begins to brush through her still wet hair. 

“Do you,” She pauses. “Do you mind doing it for me? It’s been a long time since I’ve used one of these.” 

“Sure.” 

Handing you the dryer, she sits down on your bed making herself comfortable and then closes her eyes. You maneuver to a kneeling position behind her and begin to dry her hair for her. From this angle, you can see that her scalp is severely damaged and hair is still matted in places where she’s been unable to brush through it. However, you can see that it would be painful to attempt to get rid of the knots and decide not to take the brush from her also. 

It only takes a few moments before the strands of her hair are all flowing as dry and clean as they can be.  She remains seated even after you’ve unplugged the dryer, face straight and eyes still without a sign of life. Once she does stand, she simply grabs her things and heads out of the apartment entirely. You try to race after her, almost tumbling down the stairs more than once. 

Almost colliding with her body stood completely still in the middle of the restaurant floor, attention once again on the television which is now showing the latest music video from a male singer you can’t recall the name of. Disappointment etched on her features, likely because she missed out on seeing what happened with the drama she had become interested in after only a matter of seconds. 

“They replay it quite often you know, you could always come back to eat and watch it.” You whisper, not wishing to startle her as she had done you. 

“Thank you.” She flatly says. “But, I’m good. I have to get going now.” 

Before you can protest and offer her some more food to take with her, she’s out of the door with a flash, quickly looking over her shoulder and toward you through the window to give a small nod of appreciation. 

[beatyoutothepunchline]

On Telephones

Carrie Fisher once said to, “Take your broken heart and make it into art.” I don’t know if she ever found a way to mend a mangled heart--one that can’t will itself to make any art right now--but if anybody has got something better than slamming a two buck chuck while laying on the floor of your dorm room, listening to Julia Jacklin’s cover of “Someday” by the Strokes for the ten millionth time, while going between six different tabs on Glassdoor of jobs you didn’t get while waiting for inspiration to ding like the semi-hourly email from Sur La Table, reminding your newly single ass that “love is in the air” and while it is you can take an extra forty percent off all clad cookware, I’d like to know. All of this is happening on my phone, which I’m trying not to look at right now and am failing miserably at because I’ve spent the last ten years slowly becoming more and more addicted to and reliant upon it. I’m not sure I could go twenty seconds without checking my Instagram feed, and I can assure you that unless the little blue dot on my map app moved with me, I wouldn’t ever get to where I was going. (Have you tried to ask somebody on the street recently where something is? Everybody’s got their headphones in). Remember when phones were just phones and all they did was call people? I do… vaguely. I remember using my stubby, bitten down middle school fingernails to pull up the antenna of my 90’s Nokia, plopping down on the floor in the living room of our house in Omaha and calling everyone in my mom’s address book and tell them I had a cellphone and if I needed to be reached personally, I now could. I remember my mom walking into the room and asking what I was doing, so I told her. I was on the phone with our next door neighbor, Doris Helfrich. My mom pulled the phone out of my hand and apologized laughing it off. I was too old to be doing stuff like that. Twelve or thirteen maybe, but I’m amazed there was a point in my life when talking on phone was a source of anxiety. This is due to the pressure of trying to make a good first impression, which I’m bad at to begin with. I’m one of those people you need to meet at least eleven times before they can form an honest opinion about me. There’s even more pressure over the phone, because there is nothing to go on other than my voice. This wasn’t something that I noticed until I got older and became slightly more perceptive and self conscious of it. I personally have no problem with it, however, in recent years it has come to my attention thanks to the groundbreaking observation of several of the men I’ve gone out with that I sound, “nervous” (In my defense, I’m usually burning the candle at both ends and my voice is shaking because I’m jacked up on an insane amount of coffee.) Or they say I sound scared or sad or angry. My absolute favorite though,came from this idiot I am crying over who told me,“You sound like a California girl.” Because apparently I talk slower (I’m assuming he meant I had a super cool laid back, So-Cal surfer drawl) and because I say “like” a lot (I do, but it’s usually because I’m trying to find the right way to say something. I’m not sure why taking my time to choose my words carefully needs to be pointed out to me as if it’s a bad thing.) But I’m cool and I quote from my favorite Valley girl, saying, “Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man,” or some other joke that fits the comment. The smart one’s laugh and move on. The dumb ones ask, such as said idiot ask, “Why do you use comedy to distract from insecurities?” Truth is I didn’t have any until idiot dudes started pointing them out to me. I hate to admit I let something that stupid get to me, but whenever my phone rings now there’s this sense of fear that the voice on the phone doesn’t match the person I am, and the takeaway will be what I sound like, not what I’m trying to say. The next phone I got was a burnt orange Sidekick, which meant I could finally text people instead of having to call them. Not that I knew anyone to text. Certainly, the sixty-year-old neighbors I called on my Nokia didn’t know how to text or didn’t. But I meet people at school, those people invited me to parties where I meet more people. Those people and I talked for a while and if general teenage awkwardness (because let’s be clear: teenagers were socially awkward long before phones started making them that way) or my inability to form a sentence without sounding like an idiot didn’t ruin the conversation we’d exchange numbers so we didn’t have to talk with our mouths anymore. I distinctly remember a two week period in high school where I met a dude at a party, told my friend to give him my number, lost my phone for two weeks (totally content with never seeing it again) only to find it with an eighty-nine percent battery life and three texts from the boy my friend gave my number to. And really there are two things that are amazing about this. The first is that there was a point in my life where I went two weeks (336 hours, 20,160 minutes) without looking at my phone and that there was a point in my life where I truly didn’t care if the dude from the party texted me. Right after the party, or at all. What happened to her? Fourteen years old in that cocktail dress my mom bought me last minute from Forever 21, standing along the back wall of a dark high school gym, the bass rattling my chest. There was a point in my life where the loudness of it all didn’t freak me out. There was something almost kind of meditative about it. Not the people or music. There is absolutely nothing meditative about being surrounded by teenagers in varying stages of puberty (and yet somehow simultaneously, at the peak of it), dancing to “Apple Bottom Jeans” by T-Pain and screaming “REMEMBER FIFTH GRADE?!” or singing out of key to “Fireflies” by Owl City and screaming “REMEMBER SEVENTH GRADE?!” or little circles of light from a disco ball spinning around your head like someone knocked out in a cartoon. I stood along the back wall of the gym, closed my eyes and focused on the bass until I forgot all the lyrics and all the people around me. If I were twenty-one then I’d have pulled my earbuds out of my clutch and put in my music, Jon Brion or Aimee Man or the Velvet Underground, and slow danced with myself. Unfortunately, I was fourteen. I didn’t know who Jon Brion or Aimee Man were and I didn’t go to the dance alone. For some reason, I decided to go with a bunch of girls who were appalled by the sight of grinding. I was appalled by them being appalled by people who made different choices than they did and decided to call my parents to pick me up an hour into the dance. “Already?” My mom asked though I’m not sure why she was surprised. I always left the party early. As I sat waiting on a concrete bench outside, a girl ran out of the building like Cinderella and the clock was inching toward midnight. She was wearing a powder blue ball gown that looked more prom in the ’50s than a homecoming in 2013 and she was bawling her eyes out, mascara and eyeliner streaking down her face. She sat down on the opposite end of the bench from me. There were about twelve identical benches around us, but she sat on mine for some reason. From what I gathered between sobs into her cell phone she and her boyfriend had just broken up because he had and cheated on her with another girl, who he had taken to homecoming instead of her. Back in my dorm room in 2019, in between Julia Jacklin songs, I started to binge-watching videos by Thoraya Maronesy where she challenges people to call their crushes and ask them out on a date, or asks what the kindest thing they’ve ever been told and there was one video titled, “Who's 1 stranger that you still remember?” And as I watched this video, I tried to think about a stranger I remembered meeting and only one that came to mind was this girl on the bench. And the only thing I remember feeling at that moment was disgust. Because I didn’t understand why she would cry over someone like that. I didn’t get it when I invited him to a lit series I was asked to read at. I’m scared of talking to one person, the thought of standing in front of fifty hipsters in Carhartt beanies who are all tastefully one drink into the evening, armed with big vocabularies and ready to critique me is terrifying. It’s not like Iowa where if you screw up people won’t remember it because they’re not paying attention, won’t remember it because they’re five beers in, or will remember it but love you enough to make it into a joke they’ll tell at your wedding, to your children when they are old enough to get it, and put in your obit. To my surprise, they were all incredibly nice and he was the asshole. I took his judgment of shaky voice and my word choice as honesty. I let him rip into the poets that read the whole walk back to the train, only meekly interjecting with, “At least they’re writing poetry.” I let him call me cute and mansplain the intricacies of his book on finance and politics. I didn’t get it until I made dinner for him (which took well over the estimated hour cook time, because I, in fact, do not know how to operate an oven) and he told me that he was seeing three other people while I was home over winter break. Over break. When he was calling me every other night to tell me he missed me, I was dipping out of dinner early, laying on the landing of the staircase of my parents place or pacing around the freezing garage floor talking to him for an over hour. Because who calls anymore unless they really like you? Only then did click and I finally got it. Heartbreak is a sixteen year old who--for the first time in her life--finally feels like Nora Ephron didn’t completely lie to her, only to have that feeling stripped away by some stupid thing some boy told her. Because a woman well versed in her past mistakes and a man well versed in his didn’t write the right words for that asshole. Heartbreak is a big blue dress that directly juxtaposes the era. That you write off as being delusional or dated, but secretly gives you hope that slow dance still happen, that late night telephone conversations between two people still exist, and still mean more than what is said during them. Heartbreak is mascara running all down your face and no one chasing after you when you leave the party. And let me tell you, that kind of heartbreak looks much better on a sixteen-year-old girl at homecoming than on a twenty-something sitting alone at her kitchen table, with a botched TJ’s lemon chicken sitting in front of her, still a little raw in the middle. I glance down at my phone, trying to convince myself it was to check the time instead of Snapchat, or Instagram. It’s the time of night I would have called him and I debate calling my mother, but I’ve already called her. She likes breaking news, not this repetitive, 24-hour loop of a relationship I prefaced with, “Don’t get used to hearing about him. It’s not gonna last.” I know she will be a hundred percent honest with me. She’ll tell me to wipe the snot out of my nose, splash some cold water in my face and get over it. So instead I call my grandma because I want to talk to somebody that will pretend to care and she is scarily upbeat and gets wildly off topic. She will save me. Or distract me. Maybe they’re the same thing. As soon as she picks up, she tells me about how my uncle Rob was in Chicago for a Navy conference. “But only for two days,” she says as if to avoid offending me. As if I would be furious to find out he didn’t want to spend the few free hours he had in his tight schedule to see me. She told me he left his Navy blues or whatever you call them back in DC where he sometimes works, or in Sicily where he is currently stationed. I forget where she said he left his Navy blues because I wasn’t listening to her tell me how he ran all over town on his lunch break, acquiring pieces of a uniform from thrift stores and getting them tailored to fit him before dinner that night. Where nobody was the wiser, save the two men he asked had a spare necktie. I didn’t stop to consider how beautiful that was--how it could be a short story. One I could’ve been writing if I wasn’t preoccupied with things not working out with the guy I was seeing. My grandma, now picking up on my not so subtle crying, tells me in an uncharacteristically flat, matter-of-fact tone, “It works or it doesn’t,” before telling me to link up with my mom’s second cousin who lives two streets down on Michigan Avenue. That I should consider writing him a letter. Maybe network a little. I write down his address, toy with the idea of writing a letter, but hang up when my grandma starts telling me to “network” with people. A few hours after my conversation with my her, no further into my homework or a story about my uncle, I go from break up songs to love songs when “Big Me” by the Foo Fighters pops up on my recommended list. I’d heard the song before, but I had never really listened to it. Some people say it’s about a fight this guy has with his girlfriend and the line, “If we can get around it/I know that it's true.” Meaning, if it’s the real deal, they’ll figure it out together. Some say that lead singer, Dave Grohl, simply meant it as a corny love song for his wife at the time, some insist it’s about dealing with the loss of Kurt Cobain. I don’t know. I wasn’t in the state of mind to analyze it, so I let the music video inform the brilliant and infuriatingly vague lyrics. The music video for “Big Me” parodies a Mentos commercial, aptly renaming the mint candy “Footos.” In it, Grohl, the band, and several actors (who, if not ripped off of the set from an actual Mentos commercial we’re perfectly cast as being the kind of people that could be in one), encounter a series of minor a setbacks. A woman gets parked in by a self-centered businessman, Dave Grohl gets cut off by an angry lady in a limo, and a kid is kept from getting into a Foo Fighters concert. After a moment of contemplation as each tries to figure out how to deal with the situation they are confronted with, they have this sort of “Ah-ha!” moment, before popping in a “Footo,” smiling at the camera and coming up the solution that has been there all along. The band picks the car out up of the parking spot so the lady can get out, Dave Grohl befriends the woman in the limo that cuts him off and give her a Footo, and the kid is able to sneak into the concert and play with the band. It’s equal parts funny, stupid and feel good and I can’t help but smile when I watch it. I text my brother a link to the video and tell him that I’m having one of those nights where I look at Dave Grohl and think, “Alec could do that.” I pause to explain that, “I don’t know exactly what I mean by that.” But I tell him have fun making that EP he and his band are making. I listen to the song fade out and check my phone, wishing I could pop in a Mento, choose happiness and figure out how to fix myself when I think of one last number I can call. I get up off the floor, walk over to my desk and slide the poem my mom gave me out from under the chip clip holding it to my picture frame. The poem was her dad’s. It’s titled “Don’t Quit,” and when I’m close to quitting I read the poem. When I want answers to questions I flip it over to the phone number written on the back under the name D. Imer. I have no idea who he might be is or what it might means. I open my phone, dial the number, and stop just short of calling. Not because I care about what the person on the other end will think of me or my voice, but because I don’t want to ruin the illusion I’ve created. Deep down I know it will not redirect me to a secret telephone line that will give me answers to all my questions.